


A Night for a Moondance

by EmeraldEyes8917



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Garden Walk, Missing Scene, Romance, The Sign of Three, Thealock, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27149623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyes8917/pseuds/EmeraldEyes8917
Summary: After John and Mary's wedding comes to a musical close, Sherlock leaves the reception without a word and with his Belstaff firmly in place as his armour but soon finds himself a new opportunity to dance himself with someone he found himself caring for deeply.An additional scene to 'The Sign of Three', with a self-indulgent Sherlock/Anthea vignette.
Relationships: Anthea/Sherlock Holmes, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	A Night for a Moondance

_They don't know how long it takes_  
_Waiting for a love like this_  
_Every time we say goodbye_  
_I wish we had one more kiss_  
_I'll wait for you I promise you, I will..._  
  
  
Sherlock walked briskly away from the reception party, his coat swinging dramatically as he puts his arms through the sleeves, adjusting the collar up around his neck against the cold. His armour, protecting him from the outside world.

Not that he was extremely desperate to get away; he had rather enjoyed the day, contrary to his own belief weeks beforehand and the mounting stress of giving a best man's speech. Though the day brimming with sentiment had been improved by the chance of preventing the death of Major Sholto, enough had been enough once he performed the composition for John and Mary, had seen the impressed looks of all the guests, and then everyone could go about their drunken dancing and the act of embarrassing themselves for the rest of the evening.  
  
Still, he may have danced for a few moments, if given the chance, much to his personal chagrin. He had briefly considered the bridesmaid, Janine. She was fascinated by him, like many others before her, she had a distinct wit that was not too grating, she made a tolerable dance partner, but the opportunity slipped by him, as well as Janine finding someone else to hold her attention for the night. That had annoyed him at first, but then he had glanced over to see John dancing with Mary, having fun, completely happy, and he couldn't allow himself to be annoyed for long.  
  
He was leaving early, but no one would miss him until later. It was better that way.  
  
A gentle voice from the shadows, almost like a whisper on the wind, "Leaving so soon?"  
  
His footsteps halt on the path, but he doesn't look round. The garden is large, almost a winding maze, and looked quite different in the dark, deserted.  
  
His posture relaxes somewhat, and he replies, "Perhaps. Should I ask you the same?"  
  
There is a footfall, a distinctive sound of a high-heel on stone, "Not just yet. There's someone I had hoped to find before it became too late."  
  
He can hear the smile in her voice even without seeing her face.

Turning around, Sherlock meets the eyes of his brother's faithful assistant, the one he was about ready to find since he stepped out of the party.  
  
"Evening, Anthea."  
  
"Hello, Sherlock."

She folds her hands together, her gown and matching shawl a shade of midnight blue, her hair pinned up in a loose bun.  
  
"You found me, then." He doesn't sound annoyed.  
  
"It's my job to find people, remember? Not just a pencil-pusher."  
  
His smile is genuine. Putting his hands in his pockets approaches her, "You look... very nice."  
  
Her smile is shy as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the charms on her bracelet making a small tinkling sound, "Thanks. I thought I'd make an effort for the special day that was in it."  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Sentiment again. But then again you're the most sentimental person I've ever come across."

This earns him a push to the shoulder, and he grins at her.  
  
She softens, shaking her head, then looking back from where he came, the dancing guests still clearly visible through the French windows, "Sounds like quite a party. John and Mary looked so happy together."  
  
Sherlock manages not to sigh, close to having had enough of this talk of weddings, but he was fond of Anthea and didn't want to break this moment by being an arsehole.  
  
"Yes... happy."  
  
Anthea hears the irritation in his voice, so decides to drop the subject for the moment, looking back at him expectantly, "Want to take a walk?"  
  
He shrugs nonchalantly, acting like he couldn't be bothered, "Alright."  
  
She tilts her head at him, looking at him with a perceptiveness that was not as sharp as his own, and not dulled like many of her counterparts, but that he admired regardless. Her gown is a soft rustle as she turns and walks across another garden path, leading away from the bright lights and thrumming music of the reception. He willingly follows, grateful for some measure of peace now.  
  
She holds onto the ends of her shawl, covering her bare shoulders from the cold, her pace leisurely. He ambles along behind her, not even looking back at the reception party in full swing.  
  
After a few minutes, the path leads them to a secluded area with a fountain, carved angels crowding round a display of water, surrounded by a manicured lawn and trimmed hedges. A small oasis of privacy.  
  
He watches her as she gravitates towards the fountain, looking up at the sculpted figures, standing a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets. His left hand had been curled around the white rose from his lapel for some time now. Sentiment dictated that he was to give it to her, much like that other favour to Janine.  
  
Yes, that sounded right. But not yet.  
  
The calm quiet, the only background noise being the flowing of the fountain, stretches for several moments. Anthea isn't sure what to do or what to say that doesn't involve being emotional in some shape or form. He had clearly had enough emotion for a long time.

Even though she had come to know him quite well through many conversations over tea and quiet nights spent in 221B, there was an ever-present fear of annoying him, and even worse, of appearing boring. A vain thought, but it remained.

He was by no means ordinary, and to hold his attention was a task, in the beginning, even now fretting that such intense attention would slip away for good.  
  
Even now, she felt his eyes on her, and she dips her head, proceeding to look over her shoulder coyly. He remains where he is, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.  
  
She extends her hand, the shawl slipping down, but she doesn't make a move to adjust it.  
  
A day packed full to the brim of sentiment, of celebration and happiness, but he had indulged in none of it personally, until now.  
  
He steps forward and takes her hand, giving the slightest squeeze, and she returns the gesture, simple in itself, but still spoke volumes.  
  
Feeling like an awkward adolescent, he mumbles, "I suppose you wanted to be dancing tonight."  
  
Her shrug is carefree, "If the music was any good, maybe. Although these shoes would not have allowed me to do so the entire evening." She swings their joined hands with a quiet laugh.  
  
He nearly comments on women's fashion, but he holds back. Instead, he mumbles again, "Do you... do you want to now? Dance, I mean..."

Way to be obvious, consulting detective.  
  
A light comes into her eyes, "Yes, please. I would love to."  
  
He nods quickly, "Good. That's good. I would... like to, as well. Yes."  
  
Her expression is warm, and not one of pity for him tripping over his words, and he feels slightly less like a babbling teenager. They part briefly as she removes her shawl, folding it and placing it on the side of the fountain, and he removes his coat, draping it over a nearby bench.  
  
Now he is nervous. The brief lesson with Janine had been purely an opportunity to show off. This time, if he was going, to be honest, it actually meant something because it was Anthea. But he didn't let on as he takes her hand once again, his other resting on her waist, and hers rests on his shoulder.

Beginning the count in his head, he moves with her, leading with some measure of confidence, and she follows without hesitation. There was no music, only the flowing of water punctuated the steps, but they didn't require it  
  
One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.  
  
Her voice gently breaks into the counting, "The song you played for John and Mary's dance was beautiful."  
  
He looks surprised, "You heard it?"  
  
"I arrived just in time for their first dance. It really was lovely, Sherlock."  
  
His smile is tinged with pride, "Thanks. They were in perfect time with it. Do you know how many hours it took to ensure that, with composing and the dance lessons?"  
  
"I cannot imagine."

She dips her head with a smile, the dance continuing around the fountain. This seemed the right moment now.

He raises his hand from her waist, the flower still held in his palm, and he slips it behind her ear with a charming smile. Her smile is radiant and earns him a light peck on the cheek.  
  
The scene is absurdly romantic, but for the moment, he couldn't care less. No one was there except them, no cameras, no interfering brother, no curious onlookers.  
  
For a moment he loses count and nearly steps on the hem of her gown in a moment of panic, but soon rights himself. Her smile is not lost on him, as well as the blush beginning to colour her cheeks.  
  
As they danced, he found that he was focusing less on the counting and more on her. In this position, he could deduce whatever he wanted from her expression, what she was thinking, where she had been the last few hours, but his deductive mind had completely switched off.  
  
Suddenly wanting to show off again, he keeps hold of her right hand, stepping back, then lifts her arm so he can spin her around. Her laugh is one of surprise, and he grins, pulling her back towards him. They dance closer than before, heartbeats slightly faster, no longer obeying the strict rules of waltzing and being so serious.  
  
Her way of breaking the rules was sliding her hand up his neck to straighten his collar, and he very nearly stumbles again, his hand slipping down to her hip, no longer the polite hold of a waltz.  
  
When he meets her eyes again, he recognises the light that comes into them and he cannot look away. Like a moth to the flame, he leans closer, hearing her breath hitching over the sounds of the fountain as she inclines her head up to meet him.  
  
The kiss is gentle, full of longing and promise. All the emotion from this day was threatening to pour out, but he did not fear coming undone in front of her.  
  
When they part, he presses a kiss to her cheek, then burrows his face into the side of her neck, stirring the tendrils of hair loosened from the chignon, kissing her bare shoulder, his chest suddenly constricting painfully.

So he did have a heart after all. Not that he could forget after that speech today.  
  
Anthea closes her eyes, embracing him with quiet acceptance, still swaying with him, side to side with easy steps, looping her arms around his neck in a gentle embrace. 

His arm is held firmly around her waist, a hand at the back of her head, then fiddling with the pins holding the bun in place. She reaches up to assist him, letting her hair fall in a scented curtain, and he doesn't hesitate in running his fingers through it. The rose remains in place, the white petals a visually pleasing contrast to her dark hair.  
  
"Anthea..."  
  
A light kiss to his temple, all the while cherishing that sharp mind, "Oh, Sherlock..."  
  
While he knows this is irrational and profoundly illogical, but he doesn't want to let go in the fear that she would disappear, that she would find a new life with someone else and move on as John did. His flatmate, blogger, friend, had moved on with Mary. Things were going to change again, after two years of constantly moving, never settling or stopping to draw breath. The reason he had yearned to come back was to find that sense of stability, the foundations that formed the heart of his Mind Palace.

And now a piece of it was going to vanish once again.  
  
The dance is more like an embrace now, neither noticing when the steps come to a stop, and they are holding each other by the fountain, her endearments softly whispered.  
  
Here and now, Anthea was all that mattered. This distraction was all he needed.


End file.
